Everything is beautiful in Old Town Albuquerque, New Mexico. The climate is perfect for me: warm and dry. The food is delicious, always vibrant and flavourful. Meat, beans and rice are accompanied by delicious freshly fried sopapillas, hot enough to scald my hands and give the honey I drizzled on them the consistency of water. Art abounds, in both traditional and contemporary forms. Pottery of all sizes, from many pueblos, appears so perfect as to be inhuman. Jewelry vendors line the square, each displaying a multitude of finely crafted ornaments that gleam against the rough blankets on which they lie. Every dealer has at least one design that uses my namesake, mother of pearl. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original Essay This is what my Indian name means, and in Kiresan (the language of the Pueblo of Laguna) it is Wah-puh-ñee. It was given to me by my paternal great-grandmother, the former matriarch of our family. She is my connection to Albuquerque, the root of the family that lives or has lived there. Over time, his children and their children scattered, pursuing education, work, love, and adventure. Now only my great aunt and her husband are left, and they too have left the reservation. Even though we live far away now, we all come back from time to time, happy to once again see the place that makes us feel like home. This summer, my mother and I were taken to New Mexico again by my father. His health was poor for much of my life, and before he died in April 2004, he told us that he wanted his ashes scattered on Mount Taylor, a low peak a few hours from Albuquerque. Even though it took us more than four years to prepare for the event, we finally did it in July. On the way up the mountain we got lost several times, our little compact unsuited to the bumpy roads of the more direct route. Eventually, however, we headed upward, approaching the place considered sacred by the tribe. After searching for the perfect place for a while, rejecting several that weren't quite right, we found the site. In the shade of thin conifers and overlooking a shallow gorge, my mother and I finally let go of my father. A gentle breeze scattered his ashes farther than our hands could reach, and the earth still damp from the unusual rain two nights before soaked him. As we both mourned this final loss, at the same time, we knew how right it was that he had been returned to nature. This was the first time I had been to New Mexico since he passed away. Our return brought so much back to me. I remembered all the times we'd visited when I was younger, certain events highlighted by the things we did: Dad haggling with jewelry sellers, his careful examination of pots at a trading post, his affection for chili peppers . I was afraid that my love for the place would be tainted by his death, diminished without him as a guide. That fear was part of what kept my mother and me apart for so long. Once there, though, I was relieved to realize that Albuquerque still brings me closer to my father. I thought I would feel his absence too acutely to enjoy it, but instead his memory only enriched our days. And, most importantly, I have not yet begun to gain a sense of both purpose and continuity. Please note: this is just an example. Get a custom paper from our expert writers now. Get a custom essay That he really left in sense.